


...appallingly incompetent...

by scrub456



Series: A Specific Set of Skills [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin John Watson, Awkward Flirting, BAMF John, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Douglas Adams, Gen, Mercenary John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pouty Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Towel Day 2018, which is pretty damn impressive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 13:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Coffee in the park with the assassin... and the assassin's right hand man.“Obviously somebody had been appallingly incompetent and he hoped to God it wasn't him.”― Douglas Adams, The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy





	...appallingly incompetent...

He’s allowed to pout. Just this once. This won’t be the last time, but he can’t say with any kind of certainty that those future times will be legitimate excuses to pout. But this time, well, this time he believes he’s earned it. He’s got a murdered spy’s flash drive, an empty packet of cigarettes, and the contents of a Pomeranian’s bladder on his shoe to prove it.

Sherlock is slumped down on the park bench as low as he possibly can without sliding to the ground, his legs askant in front of him, his hands in tight fists shoved in his pockets. This spot, _his_ spot, usually calms him. Next to the water, surrounded by trees. It’s quiet. Still. Secluded.

His dealer used to love this spot.

Now all the quiet and all the damn trees do instead of calming him is remind him of why he’s in such a state in the first place. Goddamned Jack in a goddamned tree.

A whole fucking afternoon wasted following every footpath in the park. Checking every rubbage bin. Talking to _people._ For what? Twenty-four hours into their acquaintance, and it’s quite possible he knows less about Jack than he did when he started.

He runs both his hands into his hair, tugs, and just screams. Just once. Just until his throat stings a bit and he’s coughing.

“Might’ve known. It’s the quiet ones always like it a bit rough.”

Sherlock recognizes the voice a moment before he reacts, and manages to divert his reflexes for _fight-or-flight mode_ into combing his fingers the rest of the way through his hair, if a bit gruffly, hoping to fix some of the mess he’s made of it. He quickly -- but not too quickly, he doesn’t want his intruder to think he’s actually been startled at all -- pushes himself up to sitting from his slump.

He’s infinitely grateful the words came from behind him, as he knows exactly how badly he’s blushing. And he can’t _quite_ catch his breath. He closes his eyes, and exhales slowly. He can do this. He’s Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Something scathing should do nicely. A standard Holmes response to incompetence. Instead, he opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Never startle a man proficient in the art of throwing pinecones. Especially in a wooded area.” With the toe of his shoe he kicks a medium sized pinecone up. He jumps to his feet, snatches the pinecone, and spins around (his great coat billows out some, for effect), taking quick aim and ready to release. He’s stopped abruptly by a forearm across his chest and a small penknife pressed, blunt side, just below his jaw.

Sherlock blinks rapidly a few times, staring into deep blue eyes, and his adversary licks his lips. He’s balancing a tray of coffees with his other hand and is otherwise completely still, with the exception of the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

“Sherlock.”

“Jack.” Swallowing hard, Sherlock assumes his most imperious expression. “You almost died just now.”

“Did I?” Jack cocks an eyebrow at him. His arm is still pressed against Sherlock’s chest, though the pressure from the knife is eased off a bit.

Sherlock hums in confirmation, his arm is still raised, ready to throw his pinecone. “You might be shocked to know the rate of deaths that occur each year as caused by pinecone. And only a third are by accident.”

“So, two-thirds of all pinecone related deaths…”

“It’s quite staggering, really.” Sherlock tilts his head just slightly, revealing just a bit more of his neck above his scarf to Jack. “The numbers are in the tens...” He pauses, holding his breath, fighting the fact that his mouth wants to quirk up into a smile. He never smiles. He won't do it now.

Jack blinks twice, snorts, and laughs. Jack is laughing. It's the same laugh from before, and it's better than Sherlock remembers it being.

That’s probably because they are still standing so close.

Sherlock can feel the warmth of Jack’s breath. When he laughs, Jack laughs with his whole body. His shoulders shake. His head is thrown back. The lines around his eyes crinkle in the most becoming way, and Sherlock finally understands laugh lines.

And Jack’s forearm is still pressed across his chest.

They are so close.

And they stay that way, even as Jack's laughter calms and he catches his breath. There are laugh tears in his eyes and Sherlock finds himself once more enchanted. Jack can't wipe them away because he's holding a tray of coffee in one hand, and the other arm is still pressed against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock considers dropping the pinecone, cupping Jack's face, and doing it for him. And then, it would be nothing to just…

A shrill whistle from within a clump of trees startles them both and Jack takes two quick steps back. Sherlock is left bereft, still holding his pinecone. For a brief moment rage builds in his gut as he thinks Bill has followed him.

“Sorry, that'll be my partner. He gets like that when I make him wait for his coffee. He's an impatient arse without caffeine. Hold this?” Jack shoves the coffee tray at Sherlock, pulls one of the coffees out, and starts to jog to where the other man is hidden. “Won't be a moment,” he calls over his shoulder, and Sherlock watches him go, still completely stunned from the interruption.

As Jack approaches the trees, a hulk of a man steps out. If Sherlock hadn't known it was Jack's partner -- _partner?_ his mind races with the implications -- and if he weren't so familiar with this park, he might have thought it was a bear. He's broad, and tall -- taller than Jack, which is no difficult feat, but the disparity in height difference is almost comical -- and he looks like the definition of physical strength.

Sherlock knows he is not what is considered conventionally handsome. Though he is muscled too. Not excessively so, but he's a trained fighter, and his work demands a certain level of physical endurance. But if impressive men are what Jack is drawn to, Sherlock is going to have to flex more than his biceps to compete.

It's a good thing Sherlock _is_ an impressive man. An impressive man with a superior mind.

Sherlock watches as Jack hands the other man his coffee. They exchange words, Sherlock cannot hear what they say, and Jack is gesturing towards him. He turns and waves at Sherlock. He realizes then that he is still holding the damn pinecone, so he drops it quickly and waves awkwardly back. Jack laughs, and Sherlock is left feeling bereft again because he can barely hear it from where Jack's standing. The other man scrunches up his face at Jack, then turns a wary glare on Sherlock. He glares, unblinking, at Sherlock until their conversation ends and Jack shoves him back toward the trees with another laugh and playful swat to the backside.

Soldiers do that, right? They… they smack each other's arses? Sherlock’s sure they do. He's seen athletes do it, in the few times he was forced to be subjected to athletics. He's even seen the men on Lestrade’s squad do it. Jack and the other man -- he can't acknowledge him as Jack’s partner without feeling ill… or maybe it's jealousy, he's not sure because it's not something he's experienced a great deal of -- were certainly soldiers, they clearly served together. It's not unthinkable they might smack each other’s… hindquarters.

Sherlock swallows hard and almost drops the tray of coffee when he realizes Jack is right in front of him. He's smirking again, and observing. He slides his rucksack off his shoulders, takes the tray from Sherlock, and moves around to sit on the bench. Sherlock follows mechanically.

Jack smiles and hands him a coffee. Their fingers brush and linger a moment too long.

Time to be impressive.

“Your partner. You served together in the military. I'd say, Afghanistan or Iraq, but probably Afghanistan. You were his commanding officer, and he still defers to that rank, despite the fact you're both civilians and you try to dissuade him.” Sherlock pauses and revels in the fact that it's Jack looking stunned and a bit lost right now.

“Wow.”

Sherlock hums. He's only getting started. “You were invalided out, left shoulder injury. You used a cane earlier, and while it was a convincing bit of disguise, you actually do know how to use it. So, possible right leg injury as well, but the fact that you aren't using the cane now speaks to something psychological.”

“Hey!” Jack laughs. Not offended then. Good.

Sherlock shrugs and cocks an eyebrow. Two can be coy. “It's common enough amongst returning veterans. But you're not common, are you? You capitalize on your accumulated skills. You kill out of an elevated sense of justice, regardless of the actual law, and not out of vengeance or rage. In your work, your partner is clearly the brawn, though you aren't lacking in physical…” He stutters and clears his throat. “Ah… uhm…” He's blushing. Damn it.

“Uhm, thanks for noticing?” Jack's blushing too. Sherlock can start breathing again.

“You- while you,” he clears his throat and starts again, “value your partner's input, rely on his knowledge -- a sign of a good leader, by the way -- you are obviously the brains of the operation and not just some hired gun.” He takes a deep breath and a risk. “And your partner is your partner in business only, not romantically, though your friendship is deep and you consider him your brother.”

“Fuck,” Jack breathes. They stare at each other a moment. Jack’s eyes are wide with wonder, and he licks his lips. “I'd heard. I knew that's what you do, but christ.” He cards his fingers through his hair. “I mean… _christ._ That was impressive. Amazing.”

“Really?” _Impressive._ Jack said the word with his own mouth.

“Truly brilliant.”

“That's not what most people say.” Sherlock ducks his head intentionally. He's not a humble man, but he can certainly pretend to be.

“Oh, what do they normally say?” Jack looks at him with expectation.

Sherlock pauses for dramatic effect, then looks Jack in the eye. “Fuck off.”

Jack laughs again, and it's more beautiful than every time before. “Well, next time, call me. I'll take care of ‘em for you.” He winks, and Sherlock’s carefully fabricated demeanor melts a little. Jack just offered to kill for him. It's sick, and twisted, and only a joke, but still. It does something complicated to his chest, and he forces a small smile.

Sherlock takes a sip of the coffee and chokes. It's terrible. Truly awful. But it's fixed exactly the way he likes it. Fuck. How the hell did Jack know? Is he _that_ bloody transparent? “How?”

“You're not the only one who can deduce.” Jack hides his smile behind his cup.

“But…” Sherlock is staring. He knows he is, but he can't not. How did Jack know?

He's laughing again. Jack is laughing at _him_ this time. “Sorry, didn't mean to break your brain.” He holds up his cup. “I went back to that cafe and asked them if they knew how you take it. That's all. You can breathe, you're still the smartest one on this bench.”

“Do you know the number of people who have ever taken the initiative to find out how I take my coffee just to impress me?” Sherlock takes another sip and winces at the bitterness, but recovers himself in time to see that Jack is holding his breath. “Exactly one.” He smiles at Jack, because apparently he does that now. “Smart. Pretty damn smart.”

Jack blushes again, and they stare at each other until someone’s mobile buzzes. Sherlock is tempted to let it go, but Jack digs in his pack until he finds his mobile. “Damn.” He looks up at Sherlock. “Work thing. I probably ought to…” He sighs and drops the mobile back in the pack. As he’s digging for something else, Sherlock’s mobile pings with a text alert.

**Got another. Will you come? -GL**

**Another what? -SH**

Sherlock can’t stand for others to be intentionally obtuse, but he does so enjoy winding Lestrade up. And honestly, how is he meant to know what there is another one of?

**On of those suicides that’s not really a suicide but we’re not calling it murder. -GL**

**Will you come? -GL**

Jack is zipping up his pack and appears to be ready to leave, but he’s holding a file folder.

**Send me the address. I’ll be there in 30. -SH**

**I can hold the scene for 20 minutes. -GL**

**30\. -SH**

Sherlock drops his mobile in his pocket, not waiting for Lestrade’s response. “I’ve got a work… _thing_ too.”

“A case?” Jack’s eyes light up, and he looks genuinely interested. “Anything I’d know about?”

Sherlock has a thought. It’s fleeting. Could be dangerous. Or the best god damned decision he’s ever made. “Another one of those serial suicides.”

“You don’t actually think they’re suicides, do you?” Jack leans in a bit.

Sherlock hums in appreciation. “No. I don’t. And I intend to prove it with this one.” He takes a deep breath. “Come with me.”

“What?” Jack huffs a surprised laugh.

“To the scene. Come with me. I can always use an assistant, and it would be nice to have another competent mind in the room.” He’s radiating excitement, he can feel it. Oh, this is brilliant. It’s Christmas. A murder, and Jack, and it’s perfect.

“No good.” Jack sighs and actually looks disappointed. “I’ve got a job. Probably not wise to go where the police are. Besides,” he glances over to the clump of trees, “he’s very protective. Thinks I shouldn’t even be talking to you now. That you’ll turn us in the next time our jobs intersect.”

“I wouldn’t!” Sherlock stands and turns to face the trees. “He’s wrong. I…”

Jack puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm and guides him back to face him. “I know. I _do._ But we’ve been burned before and trust is not easily earned. He’s saved my life more times than I can really say, and I trust his instincts.” Sherlock nods and reluctantly sits back down.

“So that’s it then? You won’t even consider…” Sherlock doesn’t understand this sense of loss. He’s never had a partnership. Never needed it before. And this is why. The potential for loss. Caring is not an advantage after all.

“Not tonight. No.” Jack holds up the file folder. “But I think we can help each other.”

Sherlock looks up sharply. Jack is smiling at him as he hands him the file and stands. “It seems we have a mutual problem.” He’s pulling his rucksack on as Sherlock flips the folder open.

It’s a heavily redacted copy of a personnel file. The face in the picture is younger, hard, but familiar. “The Colonel?” Sherlock glances up at Jack, who nods in response.

“Served my first two tours under her. Dishonorable discharge. She’s tried to hire me a few times, but I think she’s into some nasty business. I won’t work for or with her. Not after what I’ve seen.” Jack shudders and looks a million miles away for a moment.

“She was at the cafe earlier.” Sherlock mumbles as he studies the file,

“Saw her go in.” Jack confirms.

“What? You were there the whole time? Fuck. You are…” Sherlock bites his tongue before he starts saying embarrassingly complimentary things.

“Pretty damn smart, I know. You’ve mentioned.” Jack winks. His mobile buzzes again and he glances to where his partner is hiding. “Look, I have to go. But we need to talk about this. And that flash drive.”

“How…”

“Look at it, then for godsake, give it to the proper authorities.” Jack grins a charming lopsided grin as he turns away. “It’s best for everyone if you don’t know how to find me. I’ll be in touch.” He heads off to the trees where his partner steps out to give Sherlock one last glare, and then they’re both gone.

 _Damn it._ That’s three times now he’s let Jack get away. And he still doesn’t know anything about him. Not really. Not _enough._ His mobile rings then, and contrary to what is typical, he picks up after just the second ring.

“Brother.”

“No.” He hangs up and sends a text.

**On my way. -SH**

**Don’t let Anderson touch anything. -SH**


End file.
